


Bells for Her

by roseofgalaxies (callmelyss)



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Childbirth, Comfort, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Implied Sexual Content, Multi, Polyamory, Pregnancy, Reference to canon events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21646597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmelyss/pseuds/roseofgalaxies
Summary: Share this with us, too, Sabé is urging her now, wordless. Still holding her hand. We’re yours; we’ve always been yours, my lady.—Padmé does not go through her pregnancy alone.
Relationships: Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker, Padmé Amidala/Eirtaé/Rabé/Sabé/Saché/Yané, Padmé Amidala/Naboo Royal Handmaiden(s)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 68
Collections: Star Wars Rare Pairs Exchange 2019





	Bells for Her

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darlingamidala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingamidala/gifts).



> Hello, darlingamidala!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this bit of canon-divergence. I loved getting a chance to think more about Padmé's relationship with her handmaidens and how they might have changed her destiny, if they'd known she needed help.

It happens like this: she is cold and alone and afraid, lying on the table. A medical droid tells her to push and push again, every time she feels that pressure. She cries out for Anakin, for Obi-Wan, for anyone who will listen. Tears fall from the corners of her eyes, slide into her hair. It hurts. It hurts more than deeply than the labor, than the effort of bringing her children into the world, something more fundamental torn from her. _Luke and Leia_ , she’ll call them. _Luke and Leia_. She repeats the names, in case they don’t hear. She is exhausted, spent, the last of her crumpling like a paper flower, before it’s done. This will be her final act. _Luke and Leia_.

It happens like this: she is shrouded by flowers, surrounded by mourners. The Queen weeps. The Senators stand by, silent, pained. Her friends in procession, the twilight. Soft lantern light. Here lies Padmé Naberrie, Padmé Amidala—but not Skywalker, never that, even if she had wanted it—once-Queen, once-Senator of Naboo. 

It happens like this: her son and daughter are sent to opposite ends of the Galaxy, and they will not meet for nineteen years. 

It happens like this, except when it doesn’t.

* * *

“My lady,” Sabé says, sitting next to her on the chaise. A surprise visit, but not an unwelcome one.

“So formal, my friend,” Padmé teases, although not unkindly, and slides one hand over her former handmaiden’s, interlacing their fingers. “What has you so troubled?”

She squeezes them. “You. Dormé sent word.” They’ve heard, of course, her old eyes and ears missing nothing, and she’s just begun to show, her condition no longer so easily concealed, even by clever fashion, high waists, dramatic draping, bold accessories. And in truth, she’s grown tired of hiding it. Sabé bows over her hand. “My lady, you need us.”

She shakes her head. It isn’t necessary; this is her burden, her secret, and nothing of politics, of Naboo, besides. “Thank you, but I’ll be fine.”

Sabé looks around at the suite, measuring, in that way she’s always had. “You’re so alone here, Padmé. Let us be with you. Let us help.”

Anakin will be back from the Outer Rim—she has to believe that, however many rumors she hears otherwise: that General Skywalker has been captured, killed, that the Jedi are failing, that the Senate has afforded more powers to the Chancellor, that the war will never end. She will share this with him then, and they will decide what to do together, as it should be. Equal partners. _Let’s just tell the truth_ , she’ll urge him. _I’ve had enough of secrets_.

Sabé is looking at her with knowing brown eyes, not so unlike her own. All of them shades of the same woman, _Amidala_ , for a time, how they had perfected the way she would speak and walk and dress, all choreographed, agreed upon. And the five of them in perfect synchronicity, matching her, effortless by the end of their training. As though they had always been there. Like having a twin, or so many sisters, she had thought at fourteen. She was never alone then, in what might have been a profoundly lonely post, one girl governing millions of souls, safeguarding them and speaking for them to the Galaxy. Yes, it might have been unbearable, had it not been shared. So often one them was tucked into bed next to her at the end of the day, hugging her close, sweet breath warm against her cheek, her neck.

 _Share this with us, too_ , Sabé is urging her now, wordless. Still holding her hand. _We’re yours; we’ve always been yours, my lady_.

Padmé shouldn’t need it, she thinks, shouldn’t need to be held, cradled in her arms, like she was when they were girls. Shouldn’t need to press her face against her collar and block it out, all of it, the war, the overburdened threads, strained and close to snapping, of the democracy she was meant to uphold, to defend. And yet, here is that respite, offered freely, allowed to her, if she allows herself. To be held and comforted, to have Sabé’s sure fingers running through her hair. _I’m here. We’ll be here_.

* * *

She had tried to explain to Anakin once what the handmaidens were to her. It was those early days before she let herself love him, not long after Cordé had died and she had reassured Dormé, told her she need not worry for her. _They’re very loyal servants_ , Anakin had commented, that wrinkle in his brow that meant he was confused or troubled.

 _They aren’t servants_ , she had replied, somewhat sharply. _They are much more than that_.

They were midnight whispers, shared confidences. They were gentle touches, easing her into heavy robes and heavier headdresses. Deft fingers powdering her face, helping apply intricate make-up, each dot and slash weighty with meaning. They were strident debates about what was best done, how to best govern, some of her first and best speeches delivered barefoot on her bedroom floor. Not that they had ever doubted her or challenged her authority on political matters, but the rest of the Galaxy was fair game, dissected by shrewd intellects and sharp tongues, the transgressions of the Trade Federation, the inertia in the Senate, the mysterious role of the Jedi, never quite known. They were shrieking laughter, lively dancing, livelier than she was allowed at formal functions. They were shy, sticky kisses on empty balconies, and the taste of starfruit. They were, when they were older, and she no longer bore the title of Queen, the first searching touches, soft lips on her throat, her breast, lower while she trembled. And she could offer the same.

Anakin had frowned deeper. Palo Jemabie had been easier, in some ways, to relate to him, the sort of first romance he understood, even though it had made him jealous. Sabé, Yané, Saché, Rabé, and Eirtaé—and eventually the others—she felt less inclined to share, that bond belonging to them alone. Maybe only another Queen of Naboo could comprehend it. 

In the end, he had let it go, remarkable in itself; that never came simply to him. _They mean something to you, I can understand that much_. _And you obviously mean something to them. Like you do to me_. _We have that in common._

* * *

They come to Coruscant one by one until at last Yané and Saché arrive from Naboo together, Saché fresh from the representative’s chambers, Yané from the orphanages. Dormé is sheepish when Padmé sees her, lurking at the edges of the gathering, but she takes her hands and kisses her cheeks and thanks her for her care. 

Her rooms are rarely empty after that, somewhat to C3-PO’s consternation— _but what do the ladies require and what am I to do for you when they’re here_ —the gathered women leaving and returning in groups and pairs, bringing her news, sharing the days’ meals with her, eavesdropping on the Senate sessions when her feet are too swollen to take her down to the Rotunda. Rabé is helping her draft a bill in consideration of badly injured clones. She’s co-writing it with Bail Organa, who seems less surprised than he ought to find her antechambers swarming with half a dozen women who could be her sisters (but are much more now), most of them sprawled over the furniture, Sabé munching a pear while she reads headlines from the Outer Rim, as though nothing has changed.

They are no longer girls, of course, and Eirtaé has children of her own, a boy and a girl already showing her same interest in art. They have outstripped the names they once chose, after her own, and outgrown the gowns they once wore, uniforms as sure as any military trappings, and found their own way. If they call her _my lady_ , it is only out of habit or kindness. If most of them carry blasters and have kept up their training, well, the Galaxy is no safer a place than it was when they were children, seizing their planet back from invaders. Much less safe, in most respects.

And yet there’s a sameness to it, recognizable, soothing, the way they are together, as though no time has elapsed. The teasing, the jokes. The way they touch each other, easy and undemanding, rubbing the aches from her shoulders, the soles of her feet, and the cream they massage into her skin, her belly. Not only her either—they turn the same attention to Saché, seeing to the old aches and injuries and scars. Padmé finds it steadying, too, to look after them, and it is like when they were young, hairbrush in her hand, the woman between her knees sighing as she brushes out her hair and plaits it neatly. 

At night, when she cries in her dreams, as she has more often lately, there’s someone there to comfort her, most often Sabé—Sabé is always there, it seems, when she needs her—to take Padmé into their arms and kiss her brow, stroke her back. _There now, my lady, I’m here. We’re here_. And Padmé might kiss her back, chastely, mouth soft, lax, and burrow into her arms, and fall asleep again that way. Might wake to find another woman or two in her bed, and not everything has changed, perhaps.

* * *

Eventually, she tells them about Anakin.

It wouldn’t have mattered to them, she knew, if there was no father, if her child was the product of a quick, anonymous affair. They only care that she intends to have it, that she has chosen this. But it has begun to feel like a lie, to take their help without telling them why she needs it, why she hesitates to make it known that she will soon have a family of her own. And there is relief, she finds, in the unburdening, the secret she’s held like a breath since that day in the lake country, her lungs aching with the effort. She can take a full, deep inhale once she’s told the story in its entirety.

They’ll keep her secret—it goes without saying that they will.

Dormé takes her hand when she’s finished speaking. The others push close around her, not crowding her, only there, bolstering her without words. 

“Whatever happens,” Rabé says. “You’ll have us, my lady.”

She sinks back into that embrace, all of them idly touching, undemanding. _Thank you_ , she tells them, or tries to, with each caress, a strand of hair tucked behind an ear or a cheek stroked or a hand held. No, she never could have explained this to Anakin, what this means to her, something like what she hopes he has with his fellow Jedi, this understanding, deeper than conscious thought, the product of proximity, shared experience. That they might hold him up like this, care for him like this, in ways she can’t fathom. Perhaps she might show him when he returns, what it means, what they mean.

* * *

But Anakin arrives bearing new scars, the shadows heavier in his eyes, a faint tremor in his hand when he speaks of the war. He smiles, all brittle edges, when she tells him about the pregnancy. _No, that’s good news. This is all that matters now_ , he says. _I’m sorry I wasn’t here, that you were alone—_

 _I’ve had company_ , she assures him. _Sabé_ _and the others._

If he’s startled by their presence in her apartments, the routine of their coming and going, he doesn’t let on. They keep their distance when Anakin is there, mindful. “I don’t—I don’t want you to feel like you have to give them up,” he murmurs against the back of her neck that night, the two of them curled in bed. They haven’t managed to sleep and stayed awake talking instead. She’s tried to tell him—and show him—what it’s meant to have these women back in her life, that reconnection. “You should have everything that you want. That you need. You deserve that.” This last said not without effort, and all it means all the more for that, for his fears, being unwanted, being replaced. Clovis. Obi-Wan, she’s thought at times, how defensive he is. But this he’s extending, offering.

“So do you,” Padmé reminds him. “Whatever that means.”

“I don’t know,” he confesses. “What I want anymore.”

 _I don’t know if I want to be a Jedi_ , he doesn’t say and doesn’t have to _. I don’t know if I belong here_.

 _I’m afraid_ , he has never had to say. 

It may not be the best time to broach the subject. “I was thinking of going back to Naboo. Have the baby there. You could join me when you’re ready. If you want.”

And in the meantime, she would have Sabé and Yané and Saché and Rabé and Dormé and Eirtaé. She would have Anakin, too, if he chooses. But only then.

He doesn’t answer yet, only shuffles closer to her, his hand drifting over her side, his lips soft under her ear. Time. They have time. “You’re twenty-two, Ani. You don’t have to have all the answers yet.”

 _It’s okay to be afraid_. _We all are._

_Space is cold._

* * *

It happens like this: the Chancellor is a war criminal, a Sith, a sworn enemy of the Jedi. He’s tried before the Senate. 

Bail Organa is elected to replace him.

Anakin is made a Jedi Master for his part in exposing the plot.

She isn’t there for any of it.

She’s in a shallow pool on Naboo, at her family’s estate in the lake country, giving birth to twins, surrounded by the women who used to be her handmaidens, who are and have always been her friends, who have become more. Who cradle her in the water while she wails and strains, who hold her up when she can’t hold herself anymore. Who tuck her sweaty hair out of her eyes. Who tell her to push and push harder—isn’t she a queen of Naboo? Isn’t she a great Senator, who’s given speeches before the whole Galaxy? Then she can kriffing well push one more time, can’t she? Who say _all right, our darling, go ahead and cry, you’re doing so well, lady, you deserve a good cry._ Who say _almost there, Padmé, almost there, just a little more._

There are medical droids, too, of course. And her mother. And eventually, there will be Anakin, leaping out of his ship before he’s killed the engine, ready to receive a twin in the crook of each arm, the children he’s not meant to have, but will, will see as often as he may. Eventually, she will return to the Senate and use her voice as she as always done. And they will find their way, all of them, and Luke and Leia, too, their first small tottering steps. But first there is Sabé, Yané, Saché, Rabé, Dormé and Eirtaé, kissing her hands, holding her close, voices warm with pride. _Our brave Queen_. _We’re here. We’ve got you. We’re here_.

And later—later, after she has had the chance to rest, to heal, her hurts soothed, after that, she will kiss them one by one and hold them and thank them. Will make sure they know she has them, too, and will. 

It happens like this: _Amidala_ lives on with all the many women who have borne that name. And each other. 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is borrowed from the Tori Amos song of the same name.
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3


End file.
